The Wrong Pill
by Deastrumquodvicis
Summary: Sherlock took the pill, and it was the wrong one.  -more elaborate and descriptive than Bad Pill-  Written for Tumblr's 2011 Johnlock Party, Team Anthea, prompt "failure"


"You'd do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored."

_An undeniable truth_, thought Sherlock Holmes as he slowly raised the pill to his lips. He was in his element, risking his own life in the quest for something to do. He didn't think of Mycroft or his parents or what they'd do if he died. All that mattered right now was the adrenaline high. He could have walked out. Perhaps he should have. But the temptation to prove he was right was so strong that he couldn't resist.

The soft plastic sensation of the capsule touched his lips, and he savored it. The lips were among the most sensitive of all the skin, and from childhood, Sherlock had always put things in his mouth that he wasn't supposed to—even more than normal children. He'd been caught in high school even, gently caressing his desk with his mouth under the pretense of sleep, as the fingers weren't nearly enough to give him all the information he craved. This was slightly sticky with the moisture of his saliva, and it stuck to his lips deliciously.

He closed his mouth around the pill, so certain of his choice. He bit down on it and it burst, the little chemical beads going everywhere in his mouth, scattering to the surfaces of the molars and flowing under his tongue. They were bitter, but only just. He subtly swished it around his mouth as the remnants of the pill dissolved into his saliva, resulting in the curious sensation that it had just vanished. He hadn't even noticed that the cabbie had swallowed his pill. He was too much in the moment to care. He swallowed.

Standing for a moment, knowing that whatever fate he had in store was sealed, he breathed a deep sensual breath. This was what he lived for. The not knowing for certain whether he'd be around tomorrow. His heart beat wildly, the adrenal gland in a hurry to provide its secretions. He'd never felt so alive as when he might be about to die. He closed his eyes in utter bliss, and only then did he realize his heart was slowing.

Nausea threatened to overwhelm him as he realized his mistake. He'd seen the results of the poison firsthand, and knew that he was in for a most unpleasant death. His stomach churned, his eyes crossed, his ears buzzed, and somewhere in the distant realm of reality he heard the cabbie's voice.

"You lose, Mr. Holmes."

The room spun and he fell to his knees, every muscle in his abdomen trying to rid himself of the poison. He knew it was too late, even though the muscles responsible for the gag reflex tightened in anticipation of saving his life.

The acid washed up his esophagus and he vomited. His eyes, too, stung, as he fought to regain some sense of composure in his dying moments, struggling against the irrational tears. His heart hurt, as did several other organs. The kidneys and liver began to protest. Even now, he was always analytical, cold and distant. Not bored. How could he be bored when such interesting and terrifying things were happening in his body? He realized his body was seizing and the vomit in his mouth was choking him. He wondered which would kill him first, organ failure or asphyxiation. A most utterly fascinating sensation, and one he hoped he'd live through by a miracle.

He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest. It wasn't even pumping at fifty beats per minute anymore. He wasn't surprised. His vision tingled with strange sparkles indicative of oxygen deprivation. For an instant, he controlled himself enough to take a gasping breath, but hydrochloric acid rather than air rushed in, burning the bronchioles and destroying capillaries. His body coughed, and the wash of pain resumed as the acid returned to his mouth, wreaking havoc on his trachea.

It was at this point he realized he could no longer see. His vision had gone totally black and it seemed as though every muscle in his body was contracting at once. He had seen death before, many many times, but he hadn't thought it would be quite this painful. His heart was down to thirty-eight beats per minute. He had ceased to be able to breathe. This was it. This was the moment of death. And he went out completely and utterly fascinated.


End file.
